Trans Manifesto - Third Formal Rendition

Bones belong in the ground. Bones belong in the ground.

I am from the past; the future has neglected you.

A reaction against identity politics is a symptom of being kettled. A noise of contrary energies. And what it means to fulfil all of your dialogues as a politics of identity is to kettle oneself. No. Not that. What I have done in a few practices of negation is essentially grass myself up. Just as intimacies of the body neglect other parts of the body: Yes in my politics I am not born in the wrong body. Yes in the established world of gender I find my body terrifying. Body and voice and mode. Yes I resist. Yes I fail. Yes this is an internal politics. Yes this is the individual. These are my tracts of affirmation. Yes this is still a jail. Yes I have never been killed in jail. Yes I cannot imagine it. Yes I do. Yes our feelings are not mutual. Yes, you are an enemy of mine. Yes the conditions are speculative. My voice, a revolting chain of lesser evil.

Bones belong in the ground.

And so we go sleeping. And so there is no action. And so you call me a boy. And so I, the unspecified order. ;;;, ,, , burying your last words with your body in the ground. An eccentric perversion. A mite.

If there were a sound
blitzing through the air
it is not yet the sound
of an entire failure.

Some Circles

There's a madness to this, and that's not a word
I'm comfortable to make

heaves it off you takes in your
no I will I must listen distractedly moving
back, back and across

regularity
everywhere I go for you
retrace the circles. Say you've seen things
had to hold back your eyes hold them tight shut say fuck off to the twilight and sunset
you are less dead than I am
my bones are compressing
I am going around and around in circles
and don't mind. Stay very still.

****

o cherished vacant. Get to the whizz of it give me something. Company. Eat. Usurp compassion there isn't it's not there in there is a gut a wall in a hole a layer a dead chrome of dope me spasm the these voices now I know what you mean about that fucking song now I want all of their voices ended. Trance the edge of Will is a
No is a
Block is Block is a wound.

**

who is it who speaks like that one point I thought it was everyone else now I am yeah sure certainty is for shits like us embrace the infinite embrace disorder no that it isn't true change your handling of the situation was inapprop ri r i I are not the i-body i-am-is-institute destroy me generalised hatred a mountain of contrary energies.

And.

There's nothing unlike not sleeping everything is similar to it everything I can see you can see is similar flying is similar cars is similar no
no that's a joke and fuck you I don't
have a body I have seven heads each head has nine eyes each eye has a mouth filled with sockets for eyes, each mouth of sockdts will follow the traitors home and take their eyes I without a body will curate the movements of the eyeless traitors. They will go faster and faster, spoiling the ground they left him there. Quite still. Such a still night

stretching forever like an eye

lay there for three days. Began to smell. I cannot call him. His eyes, they're as wet leather. No. Not quite that. Something left I can't describe. Perhaps you moved the chin. Made words appear. Perhaps I should move his chin, but the smell, I imagine, or if it just hung there open the discoloured tongue unfolded, resting there. Stuck there. Burn out my eyes. Electrolysis the eyes.

It is not a political statement,

this crowding.

..People are feeling under
valued. There is a loud confusion of hands. Sweep away the webs. What
is it we say now? Mist or exotic or it or them or she or he. What correct infliction, what choice torture. When the sound of growing is in the air. The fucking wind outside. Nothing can take us
Nothing.

              Passed.came passed.

Spreading a Rumour

Whatever you do don't wake up the river
cuts and buffetts the soul. Go across

don't let your eyes fall open with a bang
snap your nostrils shut. A wedding.